


Demons Dreaming

by Briarwolf (Tru)



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: First Person, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-29
Updated: 2005-03-29
Packaged: 2018-08-17 07:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8135068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tru/pseuds/Briarwolf
Summary: Gojyo has never really been the type to have pleasant dreams, but he comes to find that maybe it's just that the good ones don't come while he's asleep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for and published in the Yaoi Con fiction anthology in 2004, I think. Posted on the internet for the first time in early 2005, so that's probably right. In the anthology it was illustrated with some lovely work by Kiriko Moth.

Ribbons of smoke coil in front of my eyes, a faint silver glow under the light of the moon. My fingers cut through the trails, leaving a tattered curtain that dissolves into the darkness. A breeze rises, and the tip of my cigarette shines brightly orange, drawing sharp-edged shadows against my hands. They look like bloodstains. I lose myself in memories of flowers and tears and blood.

“Gojyo,” his voice is soft on the night air but I still jump, raising startled eyes in the direction the sound came from.

Once I've found him, a darker shadow against the trunk of a nearby tree, my head lowers, strands of hair sliding across my cheeks to veil my face from his gaze. I lift my cigarette to my lips, my indrawn breath making the end flare.

“If you want to hide in the dark, you should probably stop smoking,” he says, amusement and understanding mingled in his tone.

He walks to where I am sitting and crouches in front of me, a box in his hands. He lays it on the ground beside me and just watches me for a long moment, not speaking. I don't meet his eyes, but I can feel the faint sadness in his smile.

“I thought I'd rescue some dinner for you before Goku finished it all.” He rests his hand on top of the box for a minute, and then lifts his fingers to brush them across my cheek, warm and light. “I'll be waiting when you're ready.”

He rises, and my hand lifts toward him but I abort the gesture before it reaches him. Instead, I lay my hand where his had been on the top of the box, imagining that the lingering warmth is from his skin. He has been taking care of me in these little ways since he first woke after I found him and treated his wounds. I don't move as he walks away, leaving me alone with my memories and regrets.

 

He's asleep when I come back. I ease the door closed, the empty box held in my other hand, and when I turn back around his eyes are open in spite of my care to avoid noise. For an instant I'm pinned, unable to move under the intensity of his stare; burned by the heat in his eyes.

Only when he opens his arms to me do I move, the box thumping on the floor as I drop it, and my clothes making a scattered line to the bed. I slide beneath the covers and curl up beside him, listening to the drowsy murmur of his voice as he speaks bits of nonsense to me.

Hakkai talks to me about his dreams, and I can almost see them through his words. Vivid with emotion and drenched with color. It makes me wonder why I don't remember such brilliant shades when I wake up. Why some small piece of his dreams don't seep into my head, next to his on the pillow.

My only dreams are nightmares, in shades of black and white. Regrets stain the memories that I can't leave behind and that haunt my sleep. I wake in the night, cheeks wet with tears, yearning for something lost long ago, something I never really had.

Sometimes I stare at him while he sleeps, wanting to reach out and trace those familiar lips with the tip of my finger. I know what hides behind his smile, and I don't understand how he can conceal it behind that soft curl of his lips. You'd think his mouth would be hard, pressed tight against the pain that haunts him still. It isn't; his lips are like velvet when they ghost across the side of my neck, breath warm on my skin.

He whispers against my ear when we lay close together in the deepest hours of darkness. His words are filled with simple pleasures and quiet wonder. He sees so many small things that I miss. He shares them with me like secrets. I'm not sure I'm worthy of such trust.

When I touch him, I almost think my fingers will sink right into him, leaving dents that won't fade away. I imagine that my fingerprints will remain like stains on his skin. I taste him, and expect him to melt under the warm, wet sweep of my tongue. Somehow, even when we're pressed skin to skin, he's ephemeral to me. I feel like he'll vanish like mist burned away by the touch of dawn's light; like the bits of smoke lost into the night.

I drive myself to draw a reaction from his body, proof that he feels my touch and that I don't just imagine his warmth beside me. My teeth leave a perfect indent just above his shoulder, his flesh darkened by the blood drawn close to the surface in a mottled bruise. He shudders when my mouth finds his nipple, his fingers twisting tightly in my hair.

My hair. One of the symbols of my outcast status. He embraced it, embraced me, and gave me a reason not to be ashamed anymore. Hearing him gasp my name into the darkness, I offer a silent thanks to the crimson strands for giving us a bit of common ground. Neither one of us fits fully in either world, demon or human, but together we've found a place to stand. I cast away the memories of past hurt by thinking of the way my hair looks spilled through the pale skin of his fingers.

His hands cup my face and he pulls me upward, hungry kisses chasing the length of my jaw. He loses some of his patience here, his normally cool demeanor lost when he succumbs to his desire. In his passion, he is free of the constraints that bind his actions outside our bed. His skin is flushed, and I can see the quickened flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat.

I warm myself against his body; his fever is contagious and I'm hard against his thigh, needing to loose myself inside his arms. Or maybe, this is where I find myself. He shifts, and I moan and catch my breath. The small, soft laugh that follows never fails to make me smile, even as I shudder and press tight against him.

I slide my hand between us, feeling the roughness of my fingertips drag over the surface of his skin. He fits perfectly into the curl of my fingers, the curve of my palm. His hips push upward and now it's my turn to laugh, his cheeks reddening below the fervent glitter in his eyes.

He murmurs my name and my laughter dies as my lips lower to his. The taste of him fills my mouth at the slick tangling of our tongues, quick and delicate. My hand strokes his cock and he looses the thread of our kiss, lips parted as he sighs, his eyes closed and head back.

My lips are on his chest, his stomach, and I wish I could swallow him up and keep him tucked safe inside me. I'll never tell him how much I worry for him, how much I want to keep him to myself and away from the rest of the world. This casual deception has gone on too long, and I don't think he'd believe me now. I'm tied to him in more ways than I can count, but he doesn't seem to see those threads between us.

He clutches my shoulders as my tongue traces the faint line of hair beneath his bellybutton. I lay my cheek on his hip for a moment, my arms curled tightly around his waist, my eyes closed. It's these moments that I try to capture, to wrap up in my memories so that I never forget.

A breeze swirls in through the open window. We shiver as it sneaks through the cracks in the covers, and I rise up the length of his body. I suck his earlobe between my lips, and he sighs, fingertips pressing hard into the flesh of my back. I whisper words against his ear, telling him all the ways I worship his body.

“Show me,” he breathes, turning his head to catch my lips with his, saying my name softly against my mouth.

I stroke my hands slowly over his skin, drinking in the sound of every sigh, the sight of every involuntary motion. I massage the length of his arm, lowering my head to place a kiss on the inside of his wrist, the center of his open palm. His fingers curl as I move away, clutched around the kiss as if he could hold the sensation there forever.

My fingertips dance across the sweat-damp skin at the backs of his knees as I kneel between his legs. My lips trace a path up the inside of his thigh, and I can feel the muscles quiver under the skin. A whine builds in the back of his throat as my lips close around the tip of his rigid heat.

His hips twist, and I slip my hands beneath them, pushing upward as my head lowers and the tip of his cock bumps against the back of my throat. I press my tongue against the base of his prick, sucking as I raise my head and he slides between my lips. I taste him, thick with salt and sweat, and a moan shudders in my throat as my lips lower to meet the skin of his pelvis. He jerks helplessly, gasping out small pleading sounds as his fingernails scratch desperately across the sheets. I can feel him throb in my mouth and I withdraw, drawing the tip of my tongue around the swollen head of his cock. He hisses and thrusts upward involuntarily, fingers clenched tightly in my hair. I encourage him with my hands and my moans and his cock slides almost roughly between my lips.

I whimper, and with a final hard thrust he explodes in my mouth and I swallow as best I can, feeling his come coat my tongue, my lips. He slumps back onto the bed, breathing hard and slick with sweat. I breathe in the scent of him as I lick the sweat from the crease above his thigh and trace the edge of his hipbone with my tongue.

I rear up over him, sliding his legs over my hips and staring down at the wanton sprawl of his limbs. He grins and lifts a hand to the back of my neck, pulling my head down to his.

“You missed a spot,” he whispers before flicking his tongue against the corner of my mouth to catch what I'd left behind. For a second I forget how to breathe and then with a growl I grind my lips against his, and the taste of his own come on his lips makes me ache to be inside him.

He pushes me backwards so that I'm kneeling upright again, and sits up, legs still wrapped around my hips. He reaches for the vial on the bedside table just an instant before I do, and he smiles at the impatient sound that catches in my throat. Carefully, he pours oil into the palm of his hand, holding the vial so that I can replace the top. My fingers shake as I do, and a few drops fall on his thigh, bright as they reflect the moonlight through the window. He sets the vial aside when I'm done and rubs his hands together slowly.

His lips find the side of my neck, and I can't see his hands as his teeth close on my skin. Anticipation pulses with the pounding of my heart, and when his hands close around my cock I writhe, my eyes closed and the word please falling over and over again from my lips.

Slippery fingers slide up my chest, and he grips my shoulders and buries his face in the side of my neck. His lips are hot against my skin as he speaks between nipping kisses, sending tiny shivers down my spine.

“Gojyo, now. Please.”

I grab his hips and slide my aching cock into his tight flesh, helpless to stop the cry that rises in my throat as his back arches and I am sheathed deep inside him.

I lean forward, and he falls back onto the bed so that I am above him. His fingers clutch my shoulders tightly, and my hips set a quick rhythm that tears moans through my clenched teeth. I can feel sweat trickling down my chest, and his legs around my hips are slick with it.

The breathless sounds he makes as I push inside him drive me over the edge and with a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper I come, shuddering and tense. I collapse on top of him and feel his hands smooth down my spine as he licks the sweat from my shoulder.

His lips find mine and his kiss is like a benediction. I slide out of him and sigh into his mouth around the slow twining of our tongues. Drawing back I lay my cheek on his chest, listening to the constant throb of his heart.

After a moment I sit up, tossing damp strands of hair away from my face and reaching for my cigarettes on the table beside the bed. I light one, and pass it to him, and we smoke in satiated silence.

 

He sleeps with a small, content smile on his lips. I sit with my back against the wall, watching as he wanders through dreams that I can only imagine. My fingers feather gently through his hair and now it's my turn to smile as he murmurs my name in his sleep.

I think I may know why I don't have pleasant dreams. I don't need to dream while I sleep; the dream I cherish most lays beside me. I feel like he's always been there.


End file.
